My miscarriage story by Amy McKeown
It took me a couple of seconds to realise where I was. I was lying face down on the cold, bathroom floor in a large pool of blood. I had a sore head. I understood that I must have fainted whilst on the toilet, bashed my head on the wall and ended up on the floor in what now resembled a murder scene. I have no idea how long I was out. Understanding turned into relief that I was now present; I was in the flat alone while my partner dropped our toddler off at nursery. Staying unconscious could quite easily have led to me bleeding out, potentially to death. After a few minutes of gathering my senses I managed to crawl slowly through the gore back to bed where I was to remain for the best part of the next 10 weeks waiting for the haemorrhaging to stop. It did, eventually 10 weeks later.
I first found out I was pregnant in May. I was delighted. We hadn’t really started trying but a combination of disastrous building work, busy jobs and stress had meant that we hadn’t really got around to thinking about baby number 2 and our firstborn was growing up quickly. We hadn’t planned to have that much of a gap. The first trimester passed uneventfully whilst I tried to juggle exhaustion, nausea, builders, running round after a 2 year old and being flat out at work. I was much busier to give my pregnancy the same attention I had with baby number 1. I felt awful but thought this was just the early stages of pregnancy. Having had such an easy pregnancy and birth first time round it didn’t occur to me that it would be different, I just had to get past 13 weeks.
This assumption was shattered at our 12-week scan. We had turned up for it all excited to see our new baby for the first time. The scan had fallen on a Monday, our daughter’s day at home, so we had her with us; she was ecstatic to see her new brother or sister. The excitement in the room turned to shock when the sonographer said that she couldn’t hear a heart beat. I tried to process this and wondered what these words meant as she, stony faced, left the room. The words didn’t go in, they just sat there hovering over us in the silence as we waited, stunned. She reappeared with a blank faced superior as I tried to keep my daughter happy; she had sensed that something was not right the way little children do. It was only when I heard the word ‘miscarriage’ that the words started to land and my world instantly began to cave in. I went into autopilot, the shock taking over, focusing on getting my daughter out of the horrendous situation and home. This was my priority before I could even start to process the news and what it meant for myself. I made a phone call to my sister and had a torturous wait in the café next door before she could come and pick her up. I remember crying in my little girls’ face as she said ‘mummy what’s wrong? Why are you crying?’ I had to explain that her brother or sister was not well. I was trying to hold it together. We slunk downstairs to the Early Pregnancy Unit for another scan and to hear our options. Sitting in a waiting room with happy, smiling pregnant people was unbearable and I passed the time shaking and crying, the news starting to sink in.
The miscarriage was confirmed. My options were given and within a few minutes I had to choose between an operation (D&C), an induced natural miscarriage or expectant management (a natural miscarriage at home). The later was recommended as the safest and best choice, the NHS preferred option. Feeling totally overwhelmed and always preferring the natural approach I took the last option and within seconds was astonished to be discharged from the NHS or any healthcare support. I was told there would be pain (so to buy my own paracetamol as the NHS wouldn’t provide it) that I was no longer their responsibility. If my haemorrhaging got bad I should go to A&E. We stood there stunned, clutching a medicalised leaflet explaining what miscarriage was and unsure of what to do next. A couple of double brandies in the nearest pub was the only option before we could face going home. The day had turned into a nightmare.
The next 10 days were easily the worst I have ever had in my life. My body still thought it was pregnant whilst I knew my baby was dead. I knew that at any time I could start miscarrying and I was terrified as to what exactly was to happen as no one had actually talked to me about this; I was discharged too fast. Everything I read on miscarriage was negative; about how awful and painful it is. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to friends or family as to do so meant I had to vocalise the fact that I had lost my baby and I wasn’t ready to do that yet. I couldn’t. I spent the week in bed crying. I was lucky that one of my friends is a midwife so I could talk about what to expect; that I would have to go into labour and deliver the baby… I could at least try and prepare. This was something that no one in the NHS talked me through. I was and still in shock at the lack of support given. I was dispatched as soon as they found out the baby had died. Having laboured and given birth before I was at least able to have some idea what was going to happen. I couldn’t imagine being a young girl, pregnant for the first time in this position. Yet this is the preferred medical approach.
My midwife friend explained to me that the pain I had been told to expect was actually labour, something neither the NHS doctor, nor their leaflets had made clear. I would need to dilate to 4-5cm to release the baby and the placenta from my womb. I would have contractions and cramps and should manage them with breathing, moving and paracetamol. Aspirin and Ibuprofen were a no go as they would increase blood loss. I should rest between contractions and try and relax. We talked through the fact that I would deliver a baby and that this might be a shock for me to see. Options for disposal of the body included flushing it away or putting in the bin, both of which seemed horrific to me. Instead I went out with my partner to buy a beautiful jasmine plant and a pot so that we could bury our baby properly. With this knowledge I began to brace myself for what was to come.
Ten days after the scan the cramps started. Cramps turned into contractions and I lay in bed trying to manage them with my breath. I suddenly felt an urge to go to the toilet and whilst sitting there I delivered a perfect, but tiny baby. He fitted into the palm of my hand. I could see eyes, fingers and everything. A small but obviously not right baby. Nature was doing her work. Blood and clots poured out of me. My night was spent being woken by my partner every half hour to see if the quantity of blood I was losing was easing. It had been agreed with my friend that if it didn’t I would need to go into A&E. She and my partner spent all night on the phone. Night became morning, my partner dropped my daughter off at nursery and I fainted in the bathroom, waking up in a pile of gore. Thankfully whilst still strong, the bleeding started to ease and I spent the next six weeks flat out in bed recovering and waiting for it to stop. I still had placental residue and membranes in my womb months later.
My physical recovery was long due to the amount of blood I lost, but this was nothing compared to the emotional processing I had to do. In your first trimester your hormone levels are tens of thousands of times higher than normal. It takes time for these to come down and rebalance and this is a huge journey for you go through. Your mood is up and down like a yoyo. You also have to start coming to terms with the loss of your baby, pregnancy and the future that you had invested in. I had been pregnant for 3 months. In that time we had built a future and a place in our family for our baby; a future that we had now lost. Some women never come to terms with this loss.
The strange and hardest thing about miscarriage is that it is an unacknowledged loss. We never talk about it despite this happening to 1 in 4 pregnancies. Prior to this happening to me I would have shaken my head at someone telling me that they lost their baby in the first 12 weeks. I would have been sympathetic but the scientist in me would have known pregnancies are risky at this stage. I would have had no understanding of and failed to acknowledge the pain, heartache and physical process that the woman (and her partner) would have been through. Only when I openly talked about my experience did I find out that nearly everyone I knew had had a miscarriage (maybe not as lengthy an experience as mine) but just never talked about it. I know of no one that has been absent from work citing it as a reason and the most common way of dealing with it seems to be to have an operation, take a few days or a week to heal and carry on as normal and as though nothing has happened.
We need to understand and respect the loss of a baby, a future and the physical and emotional healing that needs to occur. We also need to get to grips with how we look after women in this position. NHS care is not adequate and miscarriage related absence is not protected by law. Discharging women home to miscarry with a leaflet and a direction to stop at Boots for some painkillers is not acceptable. Many women are not told what to expect or how to prepare for it. Nor is making women wait for scans alongside happy, smiling pregnant people or offering no follow up care at all. I am sharing my experience in the hope that this will help improve understanding of what miscarriage is, and to start a discussion about how we improve care and legal protection for other women in this horrendous position.
